


culpa in me

by unchangeable57



Series: communis in fide [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (not focused on but he's autistic folks), Apologies, Character Study, Child Soldiers, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Foggy apologizes, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Matt Murdock has abandonment issues, Past Child Abuse, Past Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios, Postpartum Depression, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Sort-of, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships, all my matt fics are self indulgent, and actually listens for once, autistic matt murdock, complex PTSD, foggy learns about Matt's Tragic Backstory, mentions of Stick, return of chief the emotional support dog, sensory issues, super senses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19795069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unchangeable57/pseuds/unchangeable57
Summary: “It's about me forgetting that this is your first real try at a friendship, bud. I kept on holding you to the standard of…” Foggy huffs a laugh, jagged around the edges; “To the standard you hold yourself."or: Foggy realizes he hasn't been the best friend to his best friend





	1. made it look easy

“Sister Maggie! To what do I owe this totally welcome surprise?” Foggy thinks he's bluffing remarkably well for seeing his best friend’s abandoned-him-for-thirty-years mom alone at their makeshift law office on one of Matt's rare days off. The nun’s back is as stiff as her freshly starched collar; maybe he didn’t do quite well enough. Then again, Karen said she was “Consider me feeling…  _ totally _ welcomed,” she says, a painfully familiar dry tone, as she finds a seat and tucks her tunic carefully under her, “I know you probably expected me to leave when I didn’t see my-Matthew.” Maggie coughs to cover herself, but they both notice the slip.

“Yeah, I will admit the back of a deli doesn’t seem like where you’d want to wait. He puts us in uncomfortable positions, I guess.” he finishes with a chuckle as he sits across from her, lamenting the groan of the old chair under him (honestly, nothing like loaned chairs to make you feel insecure about your weight  _ and _ your business practice at the same time). He'd expected maybe a conspiratorial chuckle, or if his in-joke didn't land, a polite nod, but instead her eyes sharpen.

“I actually came to see you;” he can see her holding back a chuckle as he automatically straightens in his chair, “and no, I'm not here to save your eternally damned soul.” Catholic humor. He's pretty sure sarcasm is in the Ten Commandments. “I know the impression you have of me is somewhat… conflicted. And, as Matthew no doubt has it in his head that explaining our relationship would be some great betrayal, I'm here to do it myself.”

Foggy would be lying if he said that conflicted wasn't putting it mildly. He doesn't outright  _ hate _ the nun; Matt would never let him criticize her, insisting ‘she has her reasons’, but Foggy thinks whatever reasons she has for not revealing herself to her blind son whose father just  _ died _ are at least a little bullshit. He clears his throat; “Okay then.”

She smooths her hands over her habit, yet makes staunch eye contact, “I left the Church to be with Matthew's father. When I had him… you have to understand, we didn't know what we do now about postpartum,” Foggy tries not to let guilt immediately wash over him, “all I knew was this  _ emptiness _ . I couldn't take care of him, couldn't even look at him, I just sat and listened to every thought in my head telling me I’d abandoned God, brought an innocent into this world of sin.” Her voice breaks, but her head is still held high, “I couldn't take care of him; I could barely take care of myself, hardly eating or bathing. The Church took me in again, and over time the fog around me lifted. For those first ten years, I could live knowing he was safe and loved, and devoting myself to God through helping others; I convinced myself it was enough. Then Jack...” her breath hitches, and for the first time she looks away, “and he was alone. I couldn't bring myself to tell him as I knew I was still unfit, I couldn't be the mother he needed, and the guilt of that decision is something I'll carry to my death. But I took care of him in the way I knew how, as a servant of the Lord, and with that distance I could remind him to brush his hair, or comfort him from nightmares. That was almost every night, I'd sit with him, and though it could never be enough I'm glad I could give him that.

“But one night I didn't come to him. Just that one night, and he never asked for anything from us ever again.” Her voice is thick with unshed tears, emotion she seems almost angry with herself to be showing. 

Foggy’s breath is knocked out of him. He knew from the nature of the conversation that he'd be hearing heavy things, but that one statement isn't just  _ sad _ or hard to hear; it shifts his entire view on his best friend. Looking back on the years he's known him, Foggy can't remember a  _ single _ time Matt has asked for his help. Or anyone's help, for that matter. He'd assumed it was stubbornness, pride, but now he realizes what he should have thought from the start: Matt doesn't ask for help because he thinks he doesn't  _ deserve _ it.

Still, Sister Maggie is not finished, and in the back of his mind he gets an inkling that explaining herself is not the only thing she's here to do. “Then Stick came. If I'd known what that bastard was doing, if I had only seen—” she cuts herself off, clearing thinking she's shown too much emotion. 

Foggy is still reeling from his revelation, so bringing up Matt's weird blind ninja mentor is just confusing. “What do you mean, ‘what he was doing’?” he asks.

She snorts, an angry sound, “Aside from teaching a twelve-year-old orphan that kindness is weakness, attachments will get him killed?”  _ Wait, what? _ “He hasn't told me much; I think my reaction to that wasn't what he'd expected,” she smiles, something proud and sad, “but the bruises and broken bones he'd had around then make it pretty obvious. All we knew was that Matt stopped  _ screaming _ , he could leave his room without flinching and covering his ears. Some of the Sisters called Stick a miracle.” the last word is spit out, making it clear he was anything but. 

All Foggy can think is what he said to Matt that night, treating Stick as some sick joke. But the joke was on him, getting angry at his best friend for telling him he was  _ abused _ . Jesus, he could be sick, because now so much makes sense, and how was he so blind to it? Anyone in their right mind could tell that Matt was hurting, has been hurting probably as long as Foggy’s known him, but never once did he ask  _ why _ . Why he believes he can't have nice things, why his first instinct when things go wrong is to push people away; because it was beaten into him by some sick old fuck.

He speaks up, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, “H-how long was he with him?”

“Only about a year; we didn't get a notice, Stick just up and left. From how Matt reacted, he didn't tell him either.” Oh, great, another person who abandoned Matt. Foggy struggles not to add himself to that list. 

Instead of being a rational adult and ending the conversation with polite farewells, he stands abruptly from his chair. “I have to go.”

Sister Maggie stands much more gracefully, yet nods in understanding; “Tell Matthew he's welcome at Mass, and that he hasn't been subtle in avoiding the new priest.”

—

It takes a good couple minutes for Matt to tidy up his apartment, removing any trace of Frank before Foggy visits. He had called before coming over, something they didn't used to do with each other. There are a lot of things they didn't used to do.

Foggy even knocks before coming in, something he'd stopped doing after realizing Matt could hear him coming up the stairs. Of course, he doesn't wait to be let in, instead walking over to the couch and sitting down, leg bouncing and heart beating slightly too fast.

Matt carries over two beers; some house-brew IPA for Foggy and a Mickey’s for him, and he can tell Foggy is nervous when he doesn't even make fun of his choice (Malt liquor may be cheap, but it's one of the few drinks that masks the bitter taste of alcohol enough for his senses). 

When he'd called, Foggy hadn't given any real clue what he wanted to talk about, but Matt can shave off a few options. He doesn't smell any anger, which honestly gets rid of most of the usual suspects of Foggy yelling at him for whatever stupid thing he did this week. 

He's never been good with silences (or silences have never been good with him, always meaning disappointment or failure or leaving) so he opens his mouth to speak, “Wha—”

Only to be interrupted by Foggy, speaking too suddenly for Matt to have sensed it: 

“I'm sorry.”

It takes less than a second for Matt to know that it's true, but he can't begin to guess what Foggy’s apologizing for. The only things he can think of, minor spats or disagreements over case law, are nothing serious enough to justify the stress Foggy is feeling, sweat and heart too fast and something bitter in the air—guilt?

His voice shakes with a forced laugh, “I think that’s supposed to be my line.” And, because God is on a personal mission to make Matt's life as difficult as possible, his attempt to lighten the mood only makes the guilt-smell stronger. 

Foggy sighs, the kind of world-weary sigh that Matt would do anything to prevent, “And that’s what I have to be sorry for.”

Matt blinks; “I-I don’t understand.” Foggy knows he has trouble with vague statements like that, tends to expect the worst. All of this feels… wrong, like without realizing it the other shoe’s been readied to drop, and Matt can’t sense where it’s going to land. 

“I talked with your mom,” because this week couldn’t get any weirder, “and she helped me realize that… I’ve been unfair to you, Matt. God, I should have realized sooner, you’ve never been exactly subtle.”

“Wh-Foggy, you’ve been  _ too _ fair with me, I don’t understand—” Foggy’s given him dozens of chances, certainly more than he deserves, and all Matt’s done is hurt him in return.

His response just seems to upset him more, that guilt guilt guilt is strangling the room, “I know you don’t. And that’s not all my fault, but I definitely didn’t help any. I put a lot of blame on you, because I thought you were doing it on purpose: hiding things, leaving, pushing me away. But you really  _ were _ trying to protect me, weren’t you? In your life, with what’s happened to you—”

“Nothing’s ‘happened’ to me Fogs, nothing  _ near _ what’s happened to other people.” And this is what he’d feared from the beginning, what he was so surprised to be absent from Foggy’s voice when they met: the pity, looking at him as some wounded creature that can’t help but lash out. He’s an adult, he’s responsible for all his mistakes.

“Matt, I’m not saying you didn’t do anything wrong,” finally another emotion is cutting through the guilt, even if Foggy’s frustration puts him on edge, “I’m saying that with how you grew up—hold off, before you argue—with how you grew up, you thought you were doing what was right. Answer me honestly: when you kept Daredevil from me, did you think there was any other option?”

He’s throwing everything at him so fast, it feels like he has an ear injury again, everything is off balance and unpredictable; “Uh-no, I didn't, but that doesn't—“

Foggy doesn't give him time, building to something; “And after I blew up at you, did you think I was leaving? That we weren't friends anymore?”

“W-well, yes, but you had every right,” he throws his hands in the air, as if some great truth has finally been revealed, “Foggy, I don't get it: what is this about?”

Foggy pulls him down to the couch, sighing and pushing his hair back (a habit from his longer locks that Matt can't help but miss, the swish of his hair against his shoulders having become so fundamental to his picture of his friend). “It's about me forgetting that this is your first real try at a friendship, bud. I kept on holding you to the standard of…” He huffs a laugh, jagged around the edges; “To the standard you hold yourself. I know that you don’t like admitting it, but half the shit you’ve been through is enough to have most people recovering for the rest of their lives. You don’t have to be perfect, Matt;” suddenly, there is a hand on his knee, warm and thumping  _ Foggy Foggy Foggy _ , “you  _ deserve _ a bit of leeway.”

If Matt wanted, he could bring up evidence to disprove everything Foggy is saying, especially his final point. If he wanted, he could show just how undeserving he is, show himself as the monster he’s always known he could be. But he doesn’t want to; he wants Foggy’s hand on his knee, the heat and pressure of someone next to him that he can pretend, just for the moment, will stay.

There is one thing he has to correct, though, in this strange bubble of care and honesty. “After Midland Circle,” and he doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath; he can smell the anti-anxiety medication Foggy’s on, a smell that had only started when he came back, “when I didn’t tell you or Karen… I knew that was wrong, that there were other choices.” A twitch in Foggy’s hand like he wants to interrupt, but he needs to get this out, “I was recovering, for a lot of it; couldn’t’ve told you if I wanted to. But, later… I didn’t plan on seeing you again.”

“It’s your instinct to push people away, I get that. Or, I’m trying to.” He bumps Matt with his shoulder, a smile shaping the end of his speech. 

Matt’s done it again, not made himself clear about something important. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t plan on seeing  _ anyone _ again. I know it was selfish, but I wanted to stop,” his throat is tight but he forces through it, words that he’s only thought suddenly needing to be heard, “I wanted to stop hurting.”

There are arms around him, leftover fear sweat and expensive cologne but a cheap shampoo he’s been using since college. Foggy, hugging him tight as if he never wants him to go, as if he isn’t a selfish asshole. For once, he lets himself be held, leaning into his friend and soaking up his warmth.

“Oh Matty,” Foggy presses a kiss into his hair, something small and sacred, “I’m so, so sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive emerged from the belly of the beast. been hit with one bad life thing after another but ain't life just like that? matt's certainly is. but i've had this part written for a while and I'm hoping posting will convince me to finish before I devote myself to all the dragon age fics i'm trying not to write  
> i have,,, a lot of feelings about foggy. he's a good person, but (especially in the hellscape that was season 2) he's not the greatest friend, and i feel that people ignore/can't recognize that because the show is framed from matt's self-hating perspective, and because it never explicitly stated the trauma and depression that motivates his actions (they're pretty damn clear abt it but I've heard people call matt selfish so clearly it wasn't clear enough for Some)  
> i'm gonna stop myself before I go on a full Matt Defense Rant even tho that's basically what this fic is for me. coming up next, for possibly the first time ever, these grown ass men have a civil conversation and someone actually listens to matt


	2. i can't pretend

If Matt focuses on the edges of his senses, he can smell the touch of Chief’s fur Frank carried in with his clothes the last time he was here, and the thought of the overly-lovey pitbull allows him a bit of calm. He imagines the clack of dull nails on the hardwood as he carries two mugs of coffee over to the couch. To Foggy.

Coffee is an act of useful masochism for Matt; the dark bitterness overwhelms his senses to the point of pain, but it's one of the most thorough palate-cleansers he's ever encountered, wiping out any other taste or smell. The shock to his system is also usually enough to make him alert, though he's pretty sure that's not why coffee wakes most people up.

Foggy accepts it gratefully, his hunch over it as if it holds the means of his existence a bit overdramatic, even to Matt. “So. What did my mom tell you about… Me.” He asks while Foggy is taking a sip; a bit of a coward move on his part, but Matt thinks he’s earned a bit of cowardice.

From the hitch in his breath, and slight cough, he can tell Foggy almost choked on his coffee, “Well… She explained her side of things, and she told me more about Stick. Jesus, I can’t believe I made jokes about that.” The last part wasn’t meant to be heard, but of course to Matt it was the same as if he’d been speaking in his ear. 

“To be fair, a blind kid being trained to fight by a blind ninja is, objectively, ridiculous.” Matt defends; anything to lighten the mood. Which, as seems to be becoming a trend, does the opposite.

“It’s a lot less funny when that little kid is your best friend and not a fucking comic book character!” He can’t help the fear that spikes in him as Foggy raises his voice, his mind instantly flashing to all their arguments that, at the time, felt friendship (and world) ending. It must show on his face, because his voice is softer when he speaks again; “Look, buddy: me trying to tell you what  _ I  _ think your life has been isn’t gonna get us anywhere. You’ve tried to explain things before, and I’ve put words in your mouth. So if you want to try again, well…” His arms lift in some furtive, shrugging gesture, “I’m listening.”

Despite all his instincts telling him to pace, to run, Matt finally sits next to Foggy on the couch, tapping his fingers nervously against his mug, “I-I don’t really know where to start.”

Foggy sighs, patting him on the back, “Kinda figured that'd be the case. Since we were on the subject, what was Stick like?" He has that tone in his voice like he already knows the answer.

There's still a hitch of surprise in his breath when Matt crosses himself before speaking; it's as much habit as asking forgiveness to speak ill of the dead. "He wasn't kind. He taught me a lot of things that at the time saved my life, but I'm slowly realizing they… might have ruined it too. I'm still grateful for what he did for me, teaching me how to control my senses, but. I think he could have been better?" 

A stutter in Foggy's heartbeat, from what he's saying or his question, he doesn't know. Thinking about Stick makes him think about Elektra, and that's something he definitely knows his former mentor could have done better than. "Sending Elektra to pretend to love me but really continue my training was pretty fucked up."

"What!?" One of these days, Matt is going to learn to gauge what Foggy's reaction will be to part of his life before sharing it. Just apparently not today.

"I didn't find out until a couple years ago; that's not why we broke up. We broke up because she tried to make me kill the man who killed my father. I don't know if that was Stick's idea, or if she genuinely thought she was expressing her love." That's a bit of a lie: he does know that she thought she was doing something good for him. But the not knowing if Stick was involved is true.

Not for the first time today, Foggy says; " _ Jesus _ , Matty." The soft scraping sound of his hand moving through his hair; Matt can’t help but miss Foggy’s longer hair, the way it swished around him and echoed the details of his face. “I never really wanted to ask back in law school, but what was it like? Being with Elektra?”

Matt sighs, even as he can feel a small smile pull at his face; “Passionate. And destructive. Really, really destructive. We pretty much did what we wanted, when we wanted; whether that was attending soirees or breaking into people’s houses. But mostly, we just… got lost in each other.” He knows their relationship wasn’t healthy (not that anything he does ever is), knows she made him into the worst version of himself, but he loves her. Somehow, he thinks he always will.

“Okay,” there’s a lot of sighing going around, though he guesses this is just that kind of conversation, “okay. How was… how was life, at St. Agnes’s?”

He can’t help but snort out a laugh, “I was a blind orphan with a penchant for talking back and picking fights: what d’you expect?” but Matt feels the embarrassed flush from Foggy and regrets his snark (not completely; some part of him is vindicated at how his past makes him uncomfortable, out of his depth). “When I wasn’t busy with training or… other things, I was normally just quiet and angry. If I wasn’t throwing myself a pity party, I’d help out with the younger kids, but I never made any friends. The Sisters are who I interacted with most, them and Father Lantom. None of them were awful, but very few of them really… cared. You could tell while you were talking that they had somewhere else to be, if they didn’t just say it out right.”

As much as he wants to be open with Foggy here, there are things he’s not ready to share, breaths and touches and tears late at night. And a smaller part of him doesn’t  _ trust _ Foggy with it, not yet, not when all it could take is one wrong word or action for their tentatively rebuilt friendship to crumble down. Foggy can say that he isn’t leaving again and again, but it's going to take a while for Matt to trust that.

It seems as if Foggy has been waiting for him to finish speaking, but eventually his breath shifts for him to start talking again, “What about college? You never talked about your undergrad days, or what you got up to when you weren’t hanging with me?”

This is easier, safer territory, and Matt tells the truth: he made friendly acquaintances in undergrad, people he could depend on for extra notes in class when the professor “forgot” to send their slides, but no one who would get angry on his behalf. As for what he did when Foggy wasn’t there: he studied, or he trained.

“I told you about… what I did after we quit Landman and Zack,” and this is where the trust starts to wain. Matt won’t tell him why it was what happened to that girl, specifically, that triggered his nightly activities, and he doesn’t know if he ever will; “but I’d never really stopped training. It was a way to focus, and to deal with everything I was hearing. It’s hard to explain what it’s like to hear… so much, all the time. Hearing people hurting and loving and living and dying,” he grins, something closer to the baring of teeth, “it’s enough to make me catatonic, if I let it.”

That spawns more questions; not the forceful demands Matt’s come to expect when speaking about his abilities, but a new, almost shy approach, not unlike the way Foggy approaches a younger or traumatized client. It rubs him the wrong way, but he answers nonetheless: yes he’s been catatonic before, no he hasn’t sought treatment for it (he can’t help a snorted laugh at that, as both of them know just how likely it is for him to step foot in a treatment center), yes he’s tried noise-cancelling headphones, no they didn’t work (he doesn’t say that when he’s in that state, the pressure of headphones on his ears feels like his skull is being crushed from both sides. He certainly doesn’t say that he knows what that feels like).

Maybe his irritation at the line of questioning shows, because Foggy asks him to go back to what he was saying. There’s not really much to tell; his life from graduating high school to meeting Foggy was just studying, training, and not enough sleep (yet somehow, still more than he’s gotten since). 

“You’ve said ‘training’ a couple times, but what does that really  _ mean? _ Are you goin’ all  _ Rocky _ on a hanging cow or…?” Matt is happy to smirk at that, remembering Foggy trying to provide audio description for the movie back in school (trying being the operative word).

"Well, with Stick, training was largely learning to… Anticipate what he wanted. A lot of tests, listening for cues, pushing past my limits. By the end it was like I didn't have limits at all. But I learned pretty quickly that wasn't sustainable," cries of 'weak' and 'failure' still rise in his head, but he knows enough about human physiology to know a lot of what Stick taught him was more inspiring than it was true, "so training became more lax. Probably two to three hours a day, I'd work on boxing, wushu, mui tai, silat and kali." He knows most of these terms will go over Foggy's head, maybe he's counting on it so Foggy will ask questions about them instead of about  _ him _ .

But as always, Foggy manages to find something concerning to latch onto. "Two to three—Jesus Christ, did you  _ ever _ take a break?"

Matt tilts his head, sure his confusion shows plain on his face; "I spent time with  _ you _ ."

To Matt's horror, he smells  _ tears _ in the air from that, fresh on his friend's face. "So all those times I pulled you out of bed… Matt, when did you  _ sleep _ ?" 

If he wasn't being confronted with hot salt water in the air, he might laugh. "I mean, it was law school, Foggy, I don't think any of us were getting eight hours," he doesn't need super senses to feel Foggy's disapproval, so he tries his best to be honest, "but probably… four to five a night?" The 'if any' goes unsaid, but Matt thinks that answer should be safe.

"And now…?" 

Honestly, Matt wants to roll his eyes. And when he answers "Three or less," he wants, desperately wants, Frank to be here. Frank wouldn't give this look of  _ pity _ , as if he's some damaged child that can't be trusted on his own. Even if he couldn't relate, Frank would  _ understand _ .

But because he  _ is _ an adult who can survive by himself, he stays for Foggy's rapidly cycling emotions. Is he short with Foggy when he starts talking? Maybe, but "Honestly, Foggy, you don't have to explain the effects of chronic sleep deprivation to me, I minored in physiology in undergrad."

"But that doesn't stop you, does it." Foggy mumbles under his breath, though almost immediately speaking up louder; "Sorry, that wasn't fair. We can… shelve that, come back to it later. Aside from not sleeping… How have you been Matt, really? How're you feeling about all the shit that's gone down?"

And somehow, that's worse than the prodding about his past. Pretty much the only emotion Matt can really identify in himself is anger, and even that, he's been slowly learning, is sometimes misplaced sadness. He gets out "I'm fine," while he's thinking, even knowing Foggy hates that answer, because there just needs to be something to fill the space.

"I'm… Better," he settles on, tucking his head down, "being with you, and Karen, and my mom… It's good."

"I'm sensing a 'but' about a mile wide, buddy." Foggy says, a tired and familiar smile to his voice turned sickly sweet by the anxious sweat in the air.

Getting each word out feels like putting his own fist through a meat grinder, but he keeps going because it's Foggy, and he promised to be honest. "It really  _ is _ good," Matt qualifies first, "I just. Feels like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Foggy's hand is on his back again, that too-fast heartbeat echoing through him. "What's that mean then? What's it feel like you're waiting for?"

If they weren't sitting next to each other, he would leave: find some small place to curl up and hide, do almost anything not to respond. But it comes out anyways, jumbled and quiet and fast; " 'm waiting for you to leave."

Spun so fast it leaves his inner-ear reeling, he's pulled into a hug, just too-tight and too-close to be perfect. Matt lets his body curve into it, putting his arms around his friend and face into the crook of his shoulder.

"I'm not leaving, Matty. You hear me? I'm not leaving."

—

He's not sure why he calls Frank. That's not true—Matt knows why, but he's had just about enough emotional introspection for the day, so when Foggy leaves he invites Frank and does dwell on it.

Because Frank has proven in the past couple of weeks to maybe, genuinely be a Saint, when he walks up to Matt's apartment he's accompanied by the gentle click of claws against the floor. Matt is at his door by the time they are, and opens it to get a face full of excited dog.

Chief doesn't jump up, is too well-trained for that, but his feet dance up and down and his tail whips through the air. It's just the right amount of overwhelming stimulus, so he crouches and lets the dog come to him. Frank chuckles above them but drops the leash and Chief wastes no time licking his face. Smelling everything the dog's eaten isn't exactly pleasurable, but rubbing down his sides while he slobbers all over him is. Nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof well i've had a Time lately. have this; aside from life and school, i've gotten like three and a half new special interests so i'll probably write for them before getting back to this (i've gotten so deep into the crappy Titans tv show,,, its such a mistake but i love it). but i'm happy to swap headcanons n stuff in the meantime!  
> as always, comments cure my depression


End file.
